


Hunger

by malchanceux



Series: Homecoming [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fill, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:18:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the island, Oliver ate when he could, and that was that. There was no designated time or place; there was no guarantee there would be a next meal. It was survival at its most basic core. You did or you didn’t, you did when you could—manners and propriety would sooner get you killed, or at least make you lose your meal. So coming home was—well, Oliver hadn’t even realized eating habits would be an issue.</p><p>Or: Oliver comes back with some issues, and he gets comfort from an unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Uhg don't even look at me. There is no Malcolm/Oliver fics out there anywhere and it is driving me insane.
> 
> I wrote this in a ridiculously small amount of time lest my muse leave me (and therefore you) hanging again.
> 
> Unbeta'd. There'll be a lot of mistakes I'll fix later (there's no fixing the plot tho /sigh).
> 
> I am so sorry this is all I can contribute to this beautiful, unappreciated ship. You guys deserve better than me. ;-;
> 
> *crawls away to re-watch season one's finale because of reasons*

One of the hardest things about being back to civilization is eating.

On the island, Oliver ate when he could, and that was that. There was no designated time or place; there was no guarantee there would be a next meal. It was survival at its most basic core. You did or you didn’t, you did when you could—manners and propriety would sooner get you killed, or at least make you lose your meal. So coming home was—well, Oliver hadn’t even realized eating habits would be an issue.

He was horribly, terribly wrong.

He doesn’t eat at the hospital. They pump him full of fluids just as quick as they relieve him of his blood. Three different doctors give him three separate physicals, and that was after two nurses helped him clean himself up in the showers. The lack of food doesn’t bother Oliver, because with so many people around—touching him, talking to him, poking and prodding him—he couldn’t eat if he wanted to. Years on the island have conditioned him to associate people with danger. His stomach is tied in knots and he flinches at quick movements or loud of noises. Food is most definitely the last thing on his mind.

When Oliver leaves with Moira from the hospital, she asks if she should have the cooks make him something at home. With his nervous stomach, he tells her the hospital made sure he was well fed.

The next day Moira and Walter are knee deep in the paper work necessary to legally bring a dead man back to life. Oliver wanders down into the kitchen on his own, tells the cook he’d much rather fend for himself, and eats a poptart.

It takes him a minute to eat both pastries _(have to eat quickly, have to eat on the run)_ and three to throw it back up. His stomach cramps so violently it feels as though he’s been shot—tears burn his eyes as he empties his stomach, and he’s never been so thankful to be alone. It comes to him then—hits him like a ton of brick—and of course he’s sick. He hasn’t eaten anything that wasn’t so fresh to be minutes from breathing in _five years._

When Thea makes her way into the kitchen, she asks if Oliver has already eaten. He tells her yes. He’s not sure why.

Thea sticks to him like glue for the remainder of the day, but in her excitement, she doesn’t realize that soon, lunch has passed them by. Oliver doesn’t bring it up, and when it’s time for dinner, he excuses himself to his room with fatigue as his excuse. It has been a long couple of days, of course. They let him go with pitying looks.

The next day, early morning, Tommy comes. They go up to Oliver’s room and just… talk. And talk. And talk. There’s so much he’s missed, and Tommy has apparently made it his personal job to get him up to speed on pop culture. Hours pass and then night falls. They’d missed lunch but don’t complain. When Moira asks why Oliver hasn’t touched his food at dinner, he tells her that he ate just a little before Tommy left, and he couldn’t possibly eat a bite.

He doesn’t know why.

They’re his family, and they wouldn’t judge him on something he can’t control. Not the way he eats, and not what he cannot eat.

Instead of telling them the truth, Oliver crudely brings to light Walter and Moira’s affair. They’re married now apparently, and though he doesn’t care—not really—he lets them think that’s where his anger stems from. Better they think that than know of his building self-hatred. His short comings.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

It’s another thing he’s found difficult about being back. It’s all so  _much_. Even with his curtains drawn and door closed, the world is so alive around him. Not like the jungle he’d endured, no, the life was artificial. The sounds of his mother’s heels down the hall, the sound of water running in pipes, the lack of insect chatter, the sound of a ceiling fan, the feel of air-conditioning, of a mattress beneath his back, the smell of the softener on his sheets, the lack of a breeze, the fact he couldn’t see the fucking stars over his head.

He has been restless since he was rescued, keyed up from a sense of paranoia and from the alien stimuli, but now it is his mind that will not let him rest.

Oliver thinks over the icy words he’d left his mother, Walter, and Thea to stew in after dinner. He thinks of his… _problem_ with food.

After hours of deliberation, he decides that, tomorrow, he will tell them. They’ll be worried, maybe, but they won’t… see him differently. There is so much wrong with him that he can hide, but eating habits… would be stretching it. He has to let them have this, he can’t keep the charade up forever—probably not even for a week more. Even if he snuck himself meals, they aren’t stupid. They’d notice.

The next morning is a disaster.

Still awake at seven in the morning, Oliver decides to just get up, get ready for the day, and try to get something in his stomach before anyone else gets up. The fridge, as expected, is fully stalked with fresh fruit, vegetables, and meat.

He pulls out an orange, peels it expertly with his bare hands in seconds so that the skin is almost slipped off in one piece, breaks the innards into four halves, and swallows them all whole without chewing. Next he takes out a slab of meat. He slaps it on a skillet only long enough to cook the outer most part of it _(can’t get sick—get sick and your vulnerable)_ before eating it in a few bites—bloody, nearly raw, and with his hands. This, he does have to chew, but only the bare minimum. He finishes it off—preparation and all—within minutes before he’s reaching back into the fridge for something else _(have to eat, have to eat, food available, can’t waste it)_ when Thea’s disgusted voice comes from the back entrance of the kitchen.

“Jesus Christ Ollie that was _gross_. Whatever happened to chewing? Or for that matter, _cooking?_ ”

Oliver freezes in front of the open fridge, and feels his face flush with humiliation and his stomach twists in uneasy knots. He feels his heart thunder in his chest with slight panic because _this_ was not how Thea was supposed to find out how fucked up he was. And certainly, that wasn’t supposed to be her reaction.

“Thea I—” his voice shakes a little, so he stops. He can’t—doesn’t understand why this is such a big deal, but it _is._ It is and it’s too much. He can’t deal with it. Not now—just not right now.

Oliver lets the fridge door close and he turns to leave, never facing Thea as he goes. His strides are quick and he hears his little sister all but jog to catch up with him.

“Ollie? _Oliver._ Where are you going?”

“Out,” he all but snaps, falling back on anger as a defense, too used to having to put up with Slade and his verbal bullying.

“Wait—what?” Thea stops when he reaches the door, “You can’t just leave. _Oliver!”_

The door slams behind him and he doesn’t look back. The car garage isn’t too far from the main house and he’s in a Bentley and driving faster than he should away from the manor within minutes—much sooner than Thea could have rallied Walter or Moira to stop him.

Oliver doesn’t realize he’s shaking until he’s halfway to the city. By then his mind has caught up with him and he takes control of his body _(can’t afford to show weakness),_ and decides on a course of action. In all honesty, there’s only one place he can go: Tommy’s.

Within thirty minutes he’s driving up the long, gravel driveway of the Merlyn manor trying to come up with an excuse for the surprise visit. He figures heavy sarcasm will save him just fine, parks, and climbs up to the grand double doors while mentally preparing himself. With people, he has to be careful with what emotions play across his face. He has been so used to five years of near solitude that schooling his features now means _showing_ emotions versus hiding them. Because a blank face was almost a necessity on the island, but here, at home, it will make him stand out as strange—broken. He doesn’t need that kind of attention.

“Oliver?” he nearly flinches when the door opens and it is not a maid or Tommy, but Malcolm. He hasn’t seen the man yet, since he’s returned, and he’s not in the state to be putting up with emotional wild cards. He had enough reunions to last him a life time, he thinks, and waits for Malcolm to get watery eyed and pull him into an uncomfortable hug _(don’t let them get too close, a knife in the back is harder to stitch than a knife in the front)_ before tiptoeing around what he lived through the last five years.

Oliver is pleasantly surprised by none of the above.

Malcolm steps back and opens the door to let him in. Shocked but not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, Oliver tentatively enters the peach marble foyer.

“It’s good to see you Mr. Merlyn,” Oliver intones politely, unsure of how to lead the conversation—awkward like he hasn’t been in a long, long while.

“And you Oliver. We’re all glad to have you home,” Malcolm smiles warmly, no teeth or overenthusiastic beaming. It’s a pleasant stretch of lips that helps put Oliver at ease—smooth’s down hackles he hadn’t realized were raised, “Though I am a little surprised by your visit.”

“I uh—wasn’t really planning to stop by. It was just a heat of the moment kind of thing,” it’s not a complete lie—though saying it was an _impulse_ would have been more accurate. A thought comes to Oliver then, he hadn’t even bothered to wonder if the Merlyn’s were busy today, “Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all,” Malcolm doesn’t so much chuckle as let out a mirthful sigh, as though the thought of him ever being too busy for Oliver is preposterous, expertly putting Oliver’s worries to rest like a puppeteer. Five years ago and he wouldn’t have noticed, but Oliver supposed running a business required a set of skills one might not ever really think of. Manipulating emotions, and gauging them from the people around you, would be a very useful tool in the cooperate world, “Couldn’t have come at a better time. We have the house to ourselves.”

With a hand not quite touching the small of Oliver’s back, Malcolm leads him to a back sun room. The windows are open and a slight breeze carries the scent of blooming flowers with it. It’s calming and warm and Oliver wonders if Malcolm picked this room for that purpose. But he couldn’t possibly sense Oliver’s unease—not that easily, could he?

“Unfortunately,” the eldest Merlyn continued, pulling out a chair for himself at an antique, wrought iron table before gesturing for Oliver to do the same. It seems old but sturdy; an impeccable, white crocheted tablecloth eases its hard lines into the soft atmosphere of the room perfectly, “that also means Tommy is not home.”

Oliver, for a moment, is not sure what to do. He can’t just up and leave because Tommy is out. Being gone for five years has whittled his manners down but he can grasp the situation now for what it is. Malcolm knew Tommy wasn’t home, but had invited him further into his house all the same. Plus, Oliver had been presumed dead for five years and he and Malcolm Merlyn were not exactly strangers. The man wanted to talk—Oliver just didn’t think he could lead this kind of conversation.

“That’s—alright,” he says with an uncertainty he’d meant to hide. It seemed today he was destined to humiliate himself one misstep after the other.

Malcolm’s warm smile doesn’t falter, but Oliver can see the calculating look in his eye—like he’s accessing the situation: what he says, doesn’t say, his body language. Suddenly Oliver feels like a bug pinned to glass for study; his heartbeat kicks up a bit. He feels almost like he had when Thea saw him eat earlier that morning—and thinking of that, of how he’d disgusted his own sister before storming off like a hormonal teenager, made Oliver wish the floor would just swallow him whole.

“I’ve been meaning to drop by, but I wanted to give you time to settle in first,” Malcolm goes on like there had never been an awkward stretch of silence, “Tommy has been going on about all the things he’ll have to fill you in on. Trust me when I tell you, some of the subjects he plans on educating you about are better off missed,” Oliver thinks about the vague summary of Twilight he’d been given and can’t agree more, “Music is definitely one of them. I think it would be in your favor if you have Tommy skip that particular lesson altogether.”

Oliver’s smile is real then. He can imagine Malcolm overhearing Tommy’s choice picks and inwardly cringing.

“I’ll keep that in mind, though it seems like a lost cause in the face of Tommy’s enthusiasm.”

“Oh most definitely. But at least then you can say you put up a valiant fight.”

Oliver chuckles and sits back in his chair—actually relaxing instead of faking it. He felt at ease with the elder Merlyn. He was so—genuine. And he wasn’t suffocating with concern or pity like the others—even Tommy had been, in his own way.

“So if you and Tommy didn’t have anything planned,” Malcolm starts with a more serious tone, though no less inviting, “was there something you needed, specifically? Not that you need a reason to come over—our doors are always open to the Queens. It does make me wonder though.”

Oliver’s grin is false—painfully so. He shows more teeth than he should and beams into his answer. For Moira or Thea, this had worked—for Merlyn, well. Oliver is pretty sure the man can see straight through his act, “No, I was just taking a car out for a spin. Not something I’ve been able to do in a while and I was going a little stir crazy at the house. I didn’t have a destination in mind. I just, ended up here. Thought Tommy might get a kick out of me behind the wheel again—and probably better at it then when I left.”

Malcolm hums in acknowledgement, but Oliver is sure he’s not buying his story. Even still, the elder doesn’t comment on Oliver’s false bravado, “Well, as I said: Tommy isn’t here, but you’re welcome to stay for a while.”

Oliver is preparing to thank the man and then politely excuse himself when Merlyn’s phone begins to vibrate, “Ah, apologies,” Malcolm says as he pulls out his phone, looks at the caller ID, and answers, “Moira Queen, what a pleasant surprise.”

Oliver stiffens in his seat, eyes flashing to the phone as his heart beat picks up its pace again. He’d turned his own phone off to avoid his mother’s worried calls, but he hadn’t expected her to call Malcolm.

“You sound upset, is something wrong?” Oliver’s eyes dart to the tablecloth as guilt begins to flood him. That, and fear. Fear that he’ll have to go home now, and face his family and Thea’s disgust. Their disappointment for him not telling them right away—for keeping secrets. Anger, Oliver is sure he could take, but their disappointment? He’s not so sure. And to be found out like this by Merlyn—he feels like a scolded child.

So caught up in his inner turmoil is Oliver that he misses the calculating way Malcolm looks at him, or the understanding that flickers over his eyes as Moira fills him in on what’s wrong.

“Moira,” he starts in a placating voice, “I’m sure Oliver just needed his space,” there’s a pause, “No, I haven’t seen him. If I do, I’ll let you know,” Oliver’s gaze snaps to Malcolm’s then, confusion and gratitude mixing together in a desperate concoction.

“No thanks necessary, Moira. Okay. Goodbye.”

There is a stretch of heavy silence for a beat. Malcolm puts his phone away, eyes never breaking their hold with Oliver’s. His smile is gone, but his warm demeanor remains.

“I, uh, may have lied a little bit about just being in the neighborhood,” Oliver confesses, and can feel the burn of humiliation racing through his veins, threatening to mar his face with a flush of red. Malcolm sighs—not in disappointment, but in thought. He drums his fingers against the table once, twice, before he’s standing, gesturing for Oliver to follow him.

Confused, he hesitates, but is quick to catch up with the elder Merlyn as he leaves the room and goes down a long hallway.

“I know I put you in an awkward position, and I’m sorry,” Oliver walks just behind Malcolm as he babbles out an apology _(the vantage point of an unseen attack)._ He’s not sure why he covered for him, but he so fucking grateful, “But I just—I couldn’t. I needed to—”

Malcolm turns then, to face Oliver. He gently stops him with a firm grip at his biceps. He catches Oliver’s eyes and holds their gaze—pins him with his steady look.

“I know, Oliver. It’s alright. And believe it or not—I understand.”

Oliver really doubts that, doesn’t think anyone could get inside his head and see through his fucked up point of view, but he doesn’t say so. Instead, he gives Malcolm a shaky nod.

Merlyn turns again, but this time he leads Oliver with a firm hand between his shoulders. It makes Oliver tense up, because there are a countless number of ways Malcolm could have him bleeding, incapacitated, and on the floor with just that one arm. He has to mentally restrain himself from shaking the point of contact off. When they turn into the kitchen though, Oliver’s heels dig into the tile flooring. He stops, and Malcolm stops alongside him like he’d been expecting the hesitation. His hand tightens its hold as if to keep Oliver from bolting.

“Your mother told me what happened,” Malcolm says, “Well, not all of it. But from what she said, I could fill in the blanks. And I understand, Oliver. I really do.”

He removes his hand then, just when it was becoming too much—too confining. Malcolm walks further into the kitchen towards the refrigerator. He shrugs off his suit jacket and lays it on the counter, takes off his cufflinks and puts them in his pocket before rolling up his sleeves. After undoing his tie and laying it on top his jacket, Malcolm turns and begins to take things out of the fridge.

“I’m not surprised no one thought of this before—I’m sure your mother and Thea just want things to get back to the way they were,” he pulls out a bag of baby carrots, three potatoes, and a large steak, “And things can, to an extent. But not entirely. There will be changes,” he pulls out a pan and a pot—fills the latter with water and puts them both on the stove, “Food is just the tip of the iceberg. They didn’t have additives on the island, I’m assuming. No supermarkets.”

Oliver stands in the doorway unsure of what to do. Unsure of what he feels. He eyes a bar stool sitting against the oak and cream tile kitchen island and wonders if he should sit. Or if he should turn tail and run.

Malcolm unwraps the meat and opens the package of carrots. He turns to a sink to wash the potatoes and his hands before lifting the steak and plopping it into the pan without any further preparation. No herbs, no spices, and no butter. It smells heavenly.

As the meat sizzles on the pan, Malcolm turns down the heat. He takes the potatoes and cuts them in halves, and then quarters. He does it to all three before dumping them into the now boiling pot. The carrots quickly follow.

He turns to a cabinet and pulls out plates, turns to another and pulls out two glasses. He sets two place settings parallel from each other on the island, and fills both cups with water. He keeps the plates by the stove and gestures for Oliver to take a seat.

Oliver—with hesitation and a skittishness born from paranoia—sits.

Malcolm takes up a spatula, returns to the stove, and flips the meat. It hasn’t been long enough for much of it to cook, but he thinks it’ll still be less bloody than this morning’s food. But not by much. It’s almost like Malcolm had been there on the island, had seen the way Oliver had had to eat to survive. Cook things just long enough so that he wouldn’t get sick—the potatoes and carrots boiled to a softness is a treat. Easier to eat with nothing _added_ to it. No salt or pepper or butter or sour cream. Nothing he won’t be able to stomach easily or that will overwhelm his taste buds.

As the steak pops and hisses on the pan, Malcolm turns the pots burner off before carrying it to the sink and carefully draining it of water. When he’s done he grabs a serving spoon from a drawer and equally divides the carrots and potatoes between the two plates. After, he turns the pans burner off before putting the pot in the sink to be cleaned later. He pulls out a knife and uses it and the spatula to cut the meat in half while it’s still on the pan, and puts a slice on each plate before disposing of the pans and utensils in the sink with the pot.

“Bon appetite,” Malcolm says lightly as he sets the plates down and sits. As if anything about this situation could be described as _light_.

Malcolm doesn’t pick up his fork or knife, mirroring Oliver in his stand still. He’s not sure what to do—what to think. Out of all the people to help him, to understand his problem, he had never once pictured it being Tommy’s dad. But it is. Malcolm understands, and he’s not pushing Oliver for an explanation, or to talk it out, or pushing him to eat spices and herbs and additives. He’s catering to his needs, gentling him out of his comfort zone only to feed him—not interrogate him. Or judge him.

Oliver looks down at his plate, at the fork and knife. He can—he can use those. He can. Without the pressure of trying to eat before someone finds him, he can go at least that far. Malcolm made him a meal he can actually eat, he can try this much for the man. Slowly, Oliver reaches for the utensils. They feel alien in his hands, and he doesn’t remember the proper way to hold a fork and knife, but he’s—he thinks he’s got it about right.

He doesn’t look up from his plate as he cuts into the steak—hands sturdy but savage in their movements, as though he’s cutting the flesh of an enemy verses the flesh of a dead cow. The steak bleeds like either, and as he brings it to his mouth, it taste like either too. Fresh and hot and bloody and _right._ He won’t puke this up, it won’t tie his stomach in knots or make it cramp. He feels his eyes burn with unshed tears as he continues to eat in silence, Malcolm following suit and enjoying the meal as though it had been seasoned by the best chiefs of any five star restaurant.

He cleans his plate _(can’t afford to waste food)_ and he feels full for the first time since coming back from the island. Overstuffed even, perhaps a little lethargic. He had tried his best to remember to _chew_ , and though he’s still pretty sure he ate faster than he should have, Malcolm doesn’t comment. The elder Merlyn hasn’t finished, but when Oliver is done he puts down his own silverware and finishes off with a sip of water.

He stands to take his plate to the sink and Oliver, at a loss of what else to do, follows suit. He stands at the counter next to the elder Merlyn and hands him his plate when prompted. When they are both rinsed Malcolm shuts the water off and turns to face Oliver. Not even a foot apart, he swears he can feel Malcolm’s body heat radiating off of his skin. This is the closest he’s been _(comfortably)_ to another human being since the island.

Oliver can sense that they are at an impasse of sorts, and knows he should do something but he doesn’t know _what_. So when Malcolm reaches forward, once again taking control of the situation, Oliver lets him—because surely the older man _knows_ like he knew about the food and to lie to Moira about where he was. Surprisingly strong arms engulf him—one hand resting at the small his back, the other gripping at his neck. For a moment Oliver thinks he’s going to panic, to bolt or grow violent, but he shocks himself and all but melts into the embrace.

For five years, contact from another human being almost always meant some form of pain. Even when Thea and his mother hugged him—Tommy or Walter—he’d been stiff with the instincts to _fight._ Now—though he is not completely without an edge, and if provoked he could snap Malcolm’s neck in an instant—he is… comfortable. Almost submissive to the touch he hadn’t realized he needed. Comforted like he hadn’t been coming home.

Oliver leans into the embrace and slowly, tentatively, he brings his own hands up and grips lightly at the older man's dress shirt like an anchor. He breathes out a small sigh and rests his forehead on a firm, muscled shoulder.

They stand like that for an unmeasured amount of time before Malcolm speaks again, in the same warm, reassuring way he has since Oliver arrived at the Merlyn manor, “There will be some differences,” he says, thumb stroking at the hair at the base of his skull, “and people will notice. To them, they might be a little strange. But Moira and Thea are your family—and they love you. There will be a few hitches to get over, but they’re more than willing to work through these changes with you,” Malcolm pulls back from the hug, but doesn’t let go of Oliver completely. He cups both sides of his head and pins him with his eyes, “But they can only do that if you give them the chance to.”

This time Oliver can’t hold back the tears, and he cries. They’re silent but burn, choke up his throat, and bring color to his cheeks. Malcolm smiles, doleful, before leaning forward and with a firm press of lips, kisses his forehead. Malcolm wipes his tears away with his thumbs and steps back out of Oliver’s space and takes his reassuring heat with him.

“I,” Oliver takes his own step back, collects himself. Crumples his feelings and folds them nice and neat behind his stoic mask, “Thank you. For the meal, and—I better get home. My mother’s probably worried sick.”

“Of course,” Malcom says as Oliver turns to leave—to retreat, “But Oliver?”

“Yeah?”

Malcolm leans against the counter, face serious but body portraying only nonchalance, “If you have another problem like this—or if it all just starts to be too much—my house is always open to you.”

Oliver thinks about his answer. He should decline the open invitation, should only let people see so much, but at the same time—

“Thank you,” he settles on instead, but promises himself he won’t need to utilize the offer ever again. He came back with a mission, after all, he didn’t have time to have someone hold his hand and help him through his issues.

Oliver goes home and explains his behavior, his problem, to his family. More pitying and worried looks are thrown at him—Thea beats herself up despite his reassurances that she did nothing wrong—but his meals are catered to his needs and it is planned that he will slowly be introduced to a normal cuisine, at a pace his body can handle.

Oliver goes to bed that night with a blessedly full belly. He falls asleep with the feel of phantom arms and phantom heat pulling him into a restful slumber. He swears to himself it will not become a habit.

Only, it does.

**Author's Note:**

> Thinking of a sequel. What other issues do you think Malcolm could help Ollie through?


End file.
